


Blood in my eyes, Angels above me

by MischiefJoKeR



Series: Jimlock Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Bombs, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Hospitals, Injury, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:13:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock shoots the Semtex vest in the pool. The aftermath of the explosion leaves him wounded and confused, momentarily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood in my eyes, Angels above me

A ringing went through my ears. Buzzing, insistent, high pitched and scratching much like the music I compose for Mycroft when he comes around unannounced. No music is playing right now, though. Even around the ringing, my brain starts back into motion slowly. Slow was not something I had ever intended to describe my mind with, but none the less, things coming into focus so gradually could only mean that my mind was performing some kind of reboot.

First came back was hearing, obviously. The ringing was annoying. Past that, sounds of dripping water came into the background. Not much explanation there. Next, smell. The air was thick and had some unusual scent—like dampness mixed with dirt and petrol. My nose must have wrinkled, because it was pungent and most unpleasant. Then, touch. Well, all external sensory sort of came in one crashing wave of pain. Limbs felt heavy, but motor functions didn’t dare risk making them move. One leg in particular felt much heavier than the others. My temples started to throb next. The dampness in the air was justified as my clothing felt wet, uncomfortably so, sticking to me in alternating places. A new smell of blood started to form underneath the gasoline-like stench. I groan, a half-hearted attempt at a curse.

Sight, then. My eyelids felt heavy, and the blurry surroundings started to clear around me. Red-tinted lenses were covering my irises. Blood, then. Likely a head wound or a busted vessel in the eye. Still, the pain humming through my entire body was numbing, thus blood in my eyes wasn’t worrying. John would likely disagree.

John. I try lifting my head and fail. My eyelids slip shut again for what feels like minutes but could have been seconds. A draft wafts through the room, making the hair over my head shift and tickle. I open my eyes again as the ringing in my ears ceases, leaving room for the sound of rubble shifting to make its way to my stockpile of information. Where was John? Was he with me when this…whatever this is, happened? Likely. But what—

"My, my…" A voice that sends my heart thumping even harder speaks above me. My eyes aren’t open, too heavy, but I can feel the shadow of someone crouching next to me. The scent of blood is back, stronger now. They are injured as well. "I didn’t expect you to actually set the bomb off, my dear. Just makes you so much more intriguing." 

The voice has gone through the slowed sorting system of my brain and comes back: male, Irish in descent, camp…Moriarty. I force my eyes open again. I’m on my back, and Moriarty is kneeling just to my left. He looks much more serene than previously: patient and smiling with a relaxed expression— Though the red fogging my colored vision just makes the image more ominous. Darker shades of red are across Moriarty’s Westwood jacket, hanging over one shoulder, as the previously-white shirt looks much more colored. Breathing must be difficult, if his raspy voice is anything to go by. Still, this does not explain why he’s still here.

Pieces of the puzzle go together. Sniper sights on John and himself, Moriarty reentering, the vest on the ground of the pool between them. A gun in his hands. A pulling of the trigger, the explosion, the searing pain, now this. I agree myself, I didn’t expect to actually fire on the vest. Not even such, as I didn’t anticipate the explosives were real; that Moriarty would put himself on the line so early in their game. 

I realize my eyes have fallen shut once more, and I force them open again. It must not have been much longer than a few seconds, as Moriarty has not so much as shifted. I try to lift my head again, and an accusation dies in my throat as a hiss escapes instead. I look down my form, spying the large chunks of rubble from the pool covering the area, and inside the pool itself. The floor is wet and the pool is nearly empty, the concrete falling pushing it all out of the space. Another square of rock has fallen from a large pile and is lying on my leg. That would explain the particular heaviness. Smaller stones surround me, likely leaving multiple bruises or even fractures, but easily ignored. This larger one seems to have at least broken a few bones from its fall. 

"Wouldn’t move too much, my dear." The pleasantry from earlier, when his identity was first revealed, only makes my need to get to my feet stronger. Breathing is getting unbearably stupid, the air feeling too thick to be refreshing, the numb feeling coating my body feeling more like death than relief. The dark angel above me is almost like the messenger, determining which direction to let me fall: forwards or backwards. My brows furrow as another hiss leaves between clenched teeth. My eyes are shut once more but I manage them open a sliver, seeing the angel has moved and is lifting the slab of concrete from my leg. The blocky shape is lifted to an end and left to fall away from us both. A sigh of relief escapes my lungs. 

"Wh-" The sound leaves my lips before I can even think of what words were going to be uttered. They’re silenced by a pair of fingers on my lower lip, smearing something damp over them. I’m unsure if it’s my own blood or Moriarty’s. He shushes me, the exhale feeling closer to my ear and much more reassuring than it should, like being tucked into bed. I can hear sirens now, firing off approximately six blocks away. Quite the pack of them, then. I look up at the consultant opposite me, the red in my vision slowly ebbing away but still giving him the malicious outline he deserves. But now he’s so calm, satisfied with what has transpired. He doesn’t even look away from me as the sirens get closer. 

"Alas, poor Sherlock…what a mess you’ve made." His fingers on my lips slide around the side of my face, touching a cut over an eyebrow, and smoothing away soaked curls. He leans further forward, forgetting the stress it must put on his injured rib cage, placing a delicate kiss there. "I better be off…" He whispers over my brow. Another shuddering breath escapes me before I can bite it back. Part of my mind fires off insults to my own ridiculousness, cursing weakness and succumbing to pain. The other part, numb and tired, will take any coddling available. 

When I open my eyes again I can see the crimson-hued angel disappearing through a hole in the wall, previously the door to his escape. There’s wobble in his steps, but not enough to limp, and an arm around his middle. I shut my eyes again as the sirens are loud, and move no closer. Outside, then. Rubble is moved as the door is likely off it’s hinges, if the entrance even remains. My name is called by someone, and again, either by the same person or two, one more panicked than the next. Warm hands are at my throat, and my pulse beats harder. The pain is starting to fade away, not even the numbness coming across. My eyes refuse to open again, not wanting to spy another angel somewhere in the room. 

When they open again, it’s to a steady beeping instead of an insistent buzz. I frown immediately, recognizing the smell of cleaning products and linen anywhere as a hospital. My vision comes into focus, taking in the pristine white room of a hospital room and not something as austere as heaven. The pain is gone, but the weight of a needle on the junction of my elbow likely means morphine is the culprit this time. My eyes move slowly around the room, colors processing as the blood is no longer obscuring.

They do focus on a pair of blood-red roses set on the side table, vase absent, tied together by a strip of fabric. A nurse pops in and chatters away, my throat too sore to care to answer or shoo her away. When I’m alone once more (for the moment, as someone is sure to come in now that I’ve awoken), I reach a bandaged arm to the table and lift the pair of roses. The thorns are still attached, but pricks are ignored so I can run a thumb over the makeshift tie. It is silk, high thread count, unlike sheets in which this has a level of liner sewn into it, and tinges of blood around the sides where it was visibly cut by some sort of pocket knife.

Vivienne Westwood would be appalled that her designs would be shredded for something such as this.


End file.
